


The Year of Living Dangerously

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Canon, Dom/sub, F/M, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 01:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10911894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: Whatever madness there is left in Viserys, it seems to have softened with time, or more likely with the power that comes with the kingship he’d always believed he was owed. Or perhaps being driven to regular madness in their bedroom allows him to find sanity out of it.





	The Year of Living Dangerously

**Author's Note:**

> For the valar_morekinks kinkmeme prompt: Sansa/Viserys - Sansa is the only one who can tame the dragon.

He is another skill, like her embroidery or her graces. Perhaps it’s strange to view a husband as such, but Sansa has grown pragmatic with the years. Being married to Viserys has a way of putting things in perspective.

He’s not a bad husband. Sansa’s life with him is comfortable, safe. Even rather content. If he is not the gentle, romantic knight of her girlhood dreams, he is at least quite fond and gentle-mannered toward her, no longer such victim to the fits of rage and jealousy Daenerys has told her he was prone to in his youth. 

“All dragons are a least a little bit mad,” Dany had mused. Once Dany had thought she would be Viserys’s wife as well as his sister. If it bothers her that Sansa is his wife in her stead, she never gives voice to it, and Sansa wouldn’t dream to ask. Some questions are best left unanswered.

Whatever madness there is left in Viserys, it seems to have softened with time, or more likely with the power that comes with the kingship he’d always believed he was owed. Or perhaps being driven to regular madness in their bedroom allows him to find sanity out of it.

It’s not something Sansa ever knew went on between lovers. She’d often dreamed of shy caresses and sweet touches as a girl. She’d never known that a man could find pleasure in being bound, in being teased and tormented, in being nearly abused. The harsher Sansa is, the greater his pleasure and the more pliable he is afterwards, liable to do anything she could ask of him. Sometimes she uses a strap or a switch, but most often it takes only her words and the skillful meting of her touch to reduce him to babbling mewls. Once she'd tied him to the bedstead, teased him to aching hardness with her hands and her cutting words – calling on every bit of pain and anger she’s ever felt at the hands of men – and then she’d sat before the fire and brushed out her hair with a hundred leisurely strokes. He’d been beyond desperation by the time she took pity on him. He hadn’t lasted long when she’d mounted his cock, exploding inside her after only a few heartbeats as he wept and babbled endearments, but it was just as well. She hadn’t needed long herself; the more she teases him, it seems, the more she teases herself.

He’s frustrated now. He paces the floor, snapping at the members of his small council. Sansa had guided him in choosing them, leading him with gentle words as she would a skittish horse, and they vex him as often as they help him. She'd been concerned with tempering wisdom when choosing them, with careful thought and healthy dissent. The fact that they rile him perfectly to be controlled and chastened in their bedroom is merely a pleasant surprise.

“Viserys,” she calls, just as he’s stomping towards Lord Merryweather as if to push him from his chair. He stops short and looks at her. She only returns his gaze placidly, but she can see his eyes heat and his posture change, the rigid set of his shoulders softening into something approaching submission.

“I tire of this,” he tells his small council abruptly. “Be gone. We shall reconvene on the morrow.”

They file out, none daring even a glance at her. It is a strange thing for Sansa, to be feared rather than frightened, but she cannot claim she doesn’t enjoy it. Viserys waits until the last man has gone, the heavy oak door thunking softly shut behind him, then he moves softly to Sansa’s side, his nostrils flaring as a horse’s would after a long, hard run.

“Shall we retire?” he asks, lifting a lock of hair from where it lies over her breast and testing the feel of it between thumb and forefingers. The sun won’t go down for hours yet. She knows precisely what Viserys would have them do until it does.

Sansa gives her the sweetest smile in her arsenal, the smile that makes babes grin toothlessly in return, that makes old women press a hand to their hearts, that makes men fall over themselves to do her bidding.

“Perhaps later,” she tells him. He does not move back as she stands and their bodies brush tantalizingly and move apart. He sways towards her, his muscles straining with the need to catch her up and kiss her, possibly even lay her on his Council table and push first his face and then his cock into her cunt, something she has permitted him to do before. She’s half tempted to let him do it now. He makes the most grateful, reverent sounds when she allows him to sup on her cunt, sounds that make her grow wet and slick even in remembrance. But no. Sansa’s game is greater than that. One cannot use her most powerful cyvasse pieces too much, after all.

He is still standing where she left him, fists clenching compulsively at his sides, when she leaves the room and shuts the door behind her. Sansa permits herself a smile. Not all skills can be taught by Septas.


End file.
